Chapter 4 - DANCING WITH THE DEVILOur alliance changed everything.
By day, I was Lennox—the soft-spoken nanny who helped Rosie with her homework, brushed her hair, and baked cookies. By night, I was Katherine—strategic advisor to the Blackwood crime empire.
Jericho and I worked in the East Wing until the early hours of the morning. I mapped out military supply routes, taught his men how to bypass government encryption, and identified high-value targets.
In the process, I saw a side of Jericho Blackwood that no one else knew existed.
He wasn't just a ruthless monster. He was a man consumed by grief, a father who spent thirty minutes every night reading bedtime stories to his daughter in a gentle, hushed voice before ordering a hit on a rival syndicate lieutenant.
And slowly, dangerously, the line between us began to blur.
It happened on a Thursday evening. We were reviewing satellite footage of a warehouse in the Miami Design District where Volkov was suspected of storing illegal arms. Jericho was leaning over my chair, his shoulder pressing against mine. The heat radiating off him was intoxicating.
"You're standing too close," I murmured, staring at the screen.
"You're not moving," he replied quietly, his voice deep and smooth.
I turned my head. Our faces were inches apart. I could see the tiny flecks of gold in his gray eyes, the rough stubble along his jawline. His hand rose, his thumb lightly tracing the jawline where my own faint scar lay hidden beneath makeup.
"You're a dangerous woman, Katherine," he whispered, his gaze dropping to my lips.
"And you're a dangerous man, Jericho."
"Yet neither of us is pulling away."
Before the tension could snap, my laptop chimed with a high-priority alert. A red signal flashed on the screen.
Jericho instantly snapped back into boss mode, staring at the monitor.
A encrypted message had been sent directly to Jericho's private server. It contained a live video feed of the restaurant where I used to work.
The video zoomed in on the four wealthy men who had mocked Rosie weeks ago. They were sitting in a VIP room at a high-end club in South Beach. But tied to chairs behind them were three of Jericho’s top lieutenants, bleeding profusely.
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A voice echoed through the speakers, deep and gravelly with a heavy Russian accent.
"Privet, Jericho. You think you can hide your little ghost in your mansion? We know who Lennox really is. Bring her to the docks tonight, or we send your men back to you in pieces."
